Bingo.
I pop the trunk and reach for my oversized ivory Beirn watersnake tote. I scrabble through it for a moment or two until I fish out what I need: a massive pair of blush-tinted sunglasses, a silk Hermès scarf, a tube of YSL lipstick in a traffic-stopping Rouge Flamme, and finally, a pair of silver snakeskin stilettos so tall and slim they look like weapons.
Charlotte is staring at me through the window. “You keep those in your bag?” she asks incredulously.
I raise an eyebrow at her. “You don’t?”
She snaps her mouth closed again. Madeline suppresses a nervous giggle. Laurel chews away at a thumbnail.
I quickly wrap the scarf around my head Grace Kelly style and swap my Chanel flats for the heels. Finally, I apply a fierce layer of lipstick over my perfect pout, checking out the complete look as best as I can in the narrow frame of the rearview mirror.
“Watch and learn, bitches,” I snap, then march toward the hotel. My heels clack on the marble tile, making a sound like the click of paparazzi cameras. The effect works immediately: puzzled expressions appear on people’s faces. I can feel guests gazing at me once, then doing a double take. “Famous,” I hear a voice say. “Wasn’t she in that movie with . . . ?” comes another.
It’s amazing how far a little confidence can take you.
I approach the front desk, forcing a slightly pinched, woe-is-me expression to my face as I smile weakly toward the beaming receptionist.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist’s voice rises with each syllable. Her forehead furrows in a way that says she doesn’t recognize me but knows she should.
I shake my head bemusedly and sigh. “I certainly hope so.” I lean in and place a dainty hand on the smooth, polished counter, tilting my head toward the entrance and car park beyond. “I’m afraid my assistant made a mistake.” I do my best to sound disgusted. Given the circumstances, it isn’t that hard. “I need to be checked in as Marilyn Monroe, not under her name.” I throw another frustrated look at Laurel, who has followed me in with the other two girls. “And certainly not under my own.” I give a short laugh that I hope emits a “you know how it is, darling” vibe.
The receptionist pauses, her brow furrowing again. I hold my breath. Did I overdo it? Maybe the head scarf was too much. But then she moves toward her computer, her fingers skating deftly over the keyboard.
“Of course,” she chirps. She runs a key card through the activation strip and passes it to me in a small, embossed folder. “Here you go, Marilyn.” She actually winks as she slides the card to me. She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, adding, “I took the liberty of upgrading you to the Emperor Suite. Your valet is complimentary as well.”
My heart leaps. Game. Set. Match.
“Thank you so much,” I gush, then spin on one heel and stride back to the others.
“Read it and weep, ladies.” I slap the new key card into Charlotte’s outstretched palm. “We’re in the Emperor Suite now. Oh, and valet is complimentary.” I head to the car and rip the keys from the ignition, tossing them to one of the valets. “You’re welcome!” I trill over my shoulder.
Charlotte whispers something to Madeline, and the two of them smirk at me. Laurel fidgets nervously.
I put my hands on my hips. “Emperor Suite. First challenge goes to the reigning queen.”
“Actually, Sutton, not quite.” Charlotte licks her lips.
I groan. “Do you want them to add in a bottle of champagne? If so, it’s Laurel’s turn, although that’s a total gimme.”
Madeline clears her throat. “The Emperor Suite is second best. Presidential is what you wanted.” She slips the key in her pocket. “Which means you lose this round.”
Laurel squeals with delight. I glance through the doors at the girl behind the desk, considering running back in there and begging for the Presidential instead. How was I supposed to know the Presidential was the best?
But I’d said it myself. I was the queen of the Lying Game. I was supposed to know things like that.
I shrug my shoulders, toss my bag on the cart, and walk into the lobby once more, deciding not to let my friends see my frustration. I’m just getting warmed up. This kind of oversight won’t happen again.
It simply can’t.
6
MAKE NEW FRIENDS, DITCH THE OLD?
Early that same evening, after we’ve settled into our rooms and taken showers, I step off the elevator, the air cool on my bare legs. I’m wearing nothing but a bikini, a sarong, and a pair of high Tory Burch wedges, and I feel greedy stares as I walk gracefully across the lobby to the spa, where I’m meeting Garrett. A group of guys having cocktails at the bar follow me with their eyes the whole way. A bellhop actually drops a suitcase.